5 just a dream
I go back to sleep after that weird dream.
Things happen, I remind myself. Sometimes your unconscious brain says stupid shit, it doesn’t mean anything.
A week ago, I dreamed I was a bumblebee trapped inside a glass in the garage while Dad worked on his truck and wouldn’t let me out.
It’s all just a bunch of synapses firing to make nonsense.
I’m under a lot more stress than I was expecting to be right now, and it doesn’t help that this weird old man is whispering fucked-up shit in my ear.
Okay, not whispering. He said it once, clearly, and then left me alone when I told him to. But it still pisses me off.
I drift back to wakefulness slowly with images of that dream lingering in my consciousness like a dirty water stain. I’m aware enough to not let myself picture anything to do with Gray, of course. That was weird. But the phantom sensations remain.
It takes me a minute to realize I’m still lying face-down on the sheets, and my cock is rock hard all over again. I think I’ve been humping the mattress without realizing it as I woke up.
That’s fine. I’m not a horn dog like my brothers, but I jerk off when I need to.
None of this means anything. I’m a 21-year-old guy; I’m supposed to be horny all the time. There doesn’t need to be a reason for it.
I slide my hand into my boxers and wrap it around my erection, realizing there’s already a huge wet patch underneath me. Just my grip feels like ecstasy. Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever woken up this horny before.
For a second, I get a flicker of hope that this does mean something, and this is the start of me finally presenting as an alpha.
A late bloomer, like dad always said. But when I slide my hand down my cock, there isn’t even the hint of a knot in there.
I would be able to feel it by now. I know enough about the process after watching all three of my brothers go through it.
They also described the sudden horniness as something different.
It was an abrupt urge to grab and hold and fuck and claim, which makes sense.
It drove them insane, and filled this house with a prowling, menacing energy every single time.
But I still feel half asleep and the idea of getting up to fuck anything sounds exhausting; I just want to keep enjoying the pleasure simmering low in my gut.
I rub myself without rushing, content to take my time and drift on my sleepiness. It all passes in a haze.
I can’t even imagine what being a male omega would feel like.
It never occurred to me to try. I’ve never tried to put myself in the shoes of a female omega, obviously.
When I watch porn, I’m not really putting myself in anyone’s shoes, I’m just watching them fuck until that knot finally pops and I make myself come.
Images of some of the porn I’ve seen flick through my head as I continue to lazily pump my cock.
I wonder if the male omegas present the same way the females do—kneeling with their head pressed against the ground and their back arched to thrust their ass into the air, thighs spread to display their wet, open hole.
I wonder if it hurts more for male omegas, having a tighter hole than females.
Do they have to just suffer through it, or do their hormones make it feel just as good for them?
Even though it seems impossible. I’ve never thought much about my own asshole, at least until that weird dream last night, and I’ve definitely never put anything in there.
But I can’t imagine being able to get more than a finger or two in without it hurting like hell.
One time, I accidentally clicked to the wrong corner of a porn site.
I’ve always been careful about what I watch, just in case Dad is in a hyper-surveillance phase and checks up on my browser history—incognito mode is not an obstacle for anyone as deranged as my father—but I saw a few clips flash by over the thumbnail before I clicked away.
It was two alphas fucking, which I didn’t even know was possible until that moment. The larger one had the slightly smaller, but still large, one bent over, and his ridiculously oversized porno alpha cock was pistoning in and out of the guy’s ass.
They were using synthetic slick, but it still seemed to defy the laws of physics.
The man’s hole was impossibly stretched.
It also seemed like he should have been screaming in pain, but he wasn’t.
He looked as turned on as the other alpha, and his own erection was obvious—hard and heavy, hanging beneath him with a hint of a knot beginning to form.
I had a split-second of curiosity to know if it was even possible for him to take a knot. Would he come when he did? Omegas are supposed to come when they get knotted, it’s natural. But when everything’s mixed up like this, I don’t know what the rules are supposed to be.
Wrong, is all Dad would call it. Or a nastier version of that. But enough people in the world seem to like non-traditional pairings that it can’t really all be painful and pleasureless, can it? Otherwise why would anyone do it?
When I finally manage to focus my attention back on what I’m doing, I realize I’m close to coming.
My stomach is tight and my balls are drawn up close to my body.
I’ve shuffled up a little to give myself more room to work my cock, so my ass is up in the air, but I’m too lazy to hold my head up so I leave it shoved into my pillow.
I’m so fucking close, and then I can get on with my life. I let my knees slide to the side a little as I relax into the building orgasm.
Gray doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Everything is fine.
I’d been determined to banish Gray from my mind, but as soon as I think about him, I can’t help but wonder if his cock is just as ridiculous and oversized as the rest of him.
I bet it is. I bet his knot is like a goddamn softball and that’s the real reason he doesn’t have a mate, because no one can handle it.
It almost serves him right, for being so genetically blessed in every way.
Something attached to someone the size of Gray could never fit inside another person, I’m sure. The amount that even an omega—especially a poor male omega—would have to stretch to accommodate the softball-sized knot I’m picturing, it would be?—
Ropes of cum finally coat my hand as my body stiffens. My back arches with the pleasure, and I keep working myself through the most all-consuming orgasm I’ve had in a very long time.
See? I am still a totally normal guy.
It isn’t until I’m lying flat, trying to catch my breath, that something feels weird.
The cramp of pleasure I’d felt before is still there, but it’s different.
Not painful, but weird. Everything in my body feels tight, like I’m waiting for something, when I should be loose and easy after my orgasm.
And even though I’ve collapsed in my own splooge and definitely need to take a shower, there’s something else I can’t identify.
Wetness. There’s wetness between my thighs, but it doesn’t feel like cum. What the fuck is that?
My breath catches, and I reach behind myself with a shaking hand to run my fingers over my inner thighs and up my crack, gathering the wetness I find there. As soon as I pull my hand forward to look at it, a sweet smell fills the room, and I see clear, thick liquid on my fingertips.
This cannot be happening. Now my stomach cramps painfully, but I can’t tell if it’s with true pain or fear.
There’s no way there’s slick on my body, because that would mean it came from my body, and only fucking omegas are capable of producing slick.
Right? I’m sure of it, but I can’t be an omega, so this can’t be possible.
I scramble back, distressed to see just how soaked the sheets really are, and more of that smell fills my room.
Fuckfuckfuck. I need an answer right now.
I take the most frantic shower of my life—trying to wash my junk without really touching anything because I don’t want to fucking know—then open all the windows upstairs and throw my bedsheets in the bathtub to soak.
For once, I’m grateful it’s only me and Dad living here, so there’s no one else around to notice.
Dad left early this morning and won’t be home until tomorrow, I think. Plenty of time to air out the house.
And figure out what the fuck is wrong with me.
I can’t go to the doctor in Ashfall because he’s friends with Dad, and anything I told him would immediately become public knowledge. Medical ethics haven’t made it to this part of buttfuck nowhere, I learned a long time ago. Besides, I shouldn’t even be seen outside right now.
The shower did a lot, and thank fuck there isn’t more slick leaking from me now that my entire body is locked up with panic. But that doesn’t mean I can’t smell myself. It’s not right. I can’t put my finger on it, and it’s not really an omega scent, but it’s not right.
I don’t even want to be seen in Last Ditch like this in case I run into somebody from school. Which means it takes me four hours to get to the nearest real city that has an all-gender free clinic and absolutely no one around that I know. It’s a drive, but it’s worth it to know I won’t get caught.
I manage to not completely freak out on the way there, but I’m pretty sure I only manage it because I repeat that this isn’t happening the entire way there.
Occasionally, I’m hit with a strong urge to text Gray and ask him what to do.
He always seems so sure of himself. Like everything will work out for him because he can stay so calm.
But I can’t text him because that would mean admitting something is happening and nothing is happening. I’ll see a doctor, they’ll tell me I have a weird virus, and then I’ll go home.
The process of finding a place to park, then signing in and waiting for my fake name to be called, is fraying my last fucking nerve.
Not to mention, there’s no designation separation in this waiting room.
It’s a big muddled space full of everyone’s scents, and the amount of pheromones combined with distress I can scent in that room is stronger than anything that’s ever hit my nose before.
I spend the entire time sitting directly next to one of the automatic neutralizer dispensers, but it’s basically useless.
I feel sick to my stomach and my forehead is throbbing with its own pulse.